I sat in the bathroom, my knees pulled to my chest and my head thrown back, staring at the ceiling. One hand was sticky with blood while the other held the red-handled scissors I never returned to Mara. My thigh stings from the four X’s I’d carved into my skin. I glance down to see the blood congealing over the freshly ripped skin. Now I have to purge. I have to cleanse myself of my dirty sins and redeem myself in the eyes of the Lord. And if I don’t, my family is in trouble. If I don’t scrub the toilet, the tub, the sink, my family will be punished for what I’ve done. I get up, leaving the scissors on the floor and grab the sponge. I soak the counter in cleaning solution and start to scrub away my sins and shortcomings. I’m leaving blood red smudges on where the counter is wet. I quickly wipe them away. I wipe away everything.
I cut today. After group, which was really nice, I was in the car, waiting for the stoplight to turn green when this overwhelming urge to cut hit me. I fought with it, struggled with the paranoia and fear that accompanied it, all the way home. But when I got home, I gave in. I couldn’t find the knife I normally use so I grabbed a pair of scissors and locked myself in the bathroom. I’m out of room on my arm (I only cut on my right side because I’m left-handed) so I did my thigh. It had to be sets of four so I carved four X’s into my upper thigh. Four X’s means eight actual cuts. There’s safety in even numbers, especially multiples of four. I have 16 cuts on my forearm. Again, 16 is a multiple of 4 so it’s safe. I have to protect my family. I had a deep discussion with Thomas about how Uncle Fish dying (the doctor told him he only had 6-18 months to live), Death is standing on the doorstep to the Burnetts’ residence. And I have nothing to prevent it. Something is stopping me from locking the door and keeping him out. I don’t know what to do. I can’t come to grips with the fact that I’m losing one of the best people in my entire life. I don’t know what this is going to do to the family, especially my dad. Daddy was always taught that men don’t cry so he bottles his emotions up. I worry that he’s becoming an alcoholic because he drinks every single day. Can you be an alcoholic if you don’t get drunk? He never really gets tipsy or anything so is he still considered an addict? I don’t want him curling up in a bottle if and when this happens. I’m so fucking scared. I feel guilty for cutting and I’m debating whether or not I’m supposed to tell my mom. I mean I know I’m supposed to but do I want to? I hate the disappointment and the anger that accompanies my telling her. Both my parents (even though Dad’s in Virginia; I talked to him on the phone) knew that something was up with me when they talked to me. I guess I’ve lost the master ability to hide my feelings. I don’t know. I don’t want to talk anymore.